


the beautiful days

by saturno



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Animal Death, Cannibalism, Disgusting Descriptions, Drabble, Gross, Lowercase, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Murder, Necrophilia, Slaughterhouse, Wound Fucking, decomposition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2855255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturno/pseuds/saturno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>murder moments</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title is [a swans track.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dTEEtNCgiWI) this is just a very quick thing about some nondescript variants.

he's so skinny that every rib protrudes and flexes when he breathes in the thick sticky air of the prison block, rainforest-damp with sweat and human oil and waste. when he inhales, he can feel himself taking that waste inside his body, diffusing it through his blackened lungs and dissipating its molecules into his bloodstream. the prison is a part of his body as much as he's become a physical part of his cell, his own blood soaked into the infested mattress, his own dried piss smeared across the bottoms of walls. he has to sit to do it now. the things between his legs are gone. all gone, and he can't stand up to do that anymore. he hasn't been able to for years. congealed thick scar tissue in its place and a full, dull ache sometimes when he thinks too hard about concepts that maybe once excited him, a long time ago. aching, and a nauseous fearful anxiety that he tames and keeps in line by banging his palms against his forehead, over and over until the smacking pain's overriding all aching and all other feeling, all other thought.

he knows how his new body works now. he can make it do what he wants it to do, so long as he's supplying the right input. when he's hungry, in the few times he's felt hunger recently, he chews his tongue between his shattered molars until there's blood spilling down the back of his throat. when he's finally tired, he bars his door (protection from wild animals) and flings himself against the walls of his cell and screams, hollers, shrieks until he's so exhausted he plummets into a dead unconsciousness that he doesn't remember experiencing. no more dreams, no more sights or sounds. nothing he doesn't want to see or hear or feel. he has perfect control over his body and how it withers and gnarls and changes. the things he allows it to experience. he thinks of this slow decay of his body like a second puberty, a shifting change in his muscles and bones that saps him of physical strength but fills the mush of his brain with a frothing manic energy that destroys his sense of time, makes the hours stretch out and melt into one another. he is becoming something greater than himself, something beyond his current understanding, and he likes that change.

he is hyper aware of everything around him. from his hiding spot behind his overturned mattress, he can smell the animals outside. the herd, dragging their broken hooves across the floors as they stumble blind in the dark. he can hear them muttering. mooing. whispering things about him that they think he can't hear but rattle loud and long and clear in the back of his skull like coffee beans in a shaken tin. they think he doesn't know better. they think he doesn't hear them. they underestimate him. they think so little of him, and when they really do take the time to express that distaste with him, that smoldering dislike, when one comes climbing into his cell looking for him, looking to fuck him up the ass or cut and peel thin strings of meat from his stomach like bacon strips, he waits until they're close, until their hands are on him and around him and maneuvering his stickly body into the position they want him in before he buries the pointy thin end of a piece of broken metal pipe in their throats, opening arteries, spilling hot down all over him. they spit and scream and claw at the hole in their necks, then the numerous holes as he keeps on stabbing. puncture, puncture, puncture, until they stop, and they're quiet. and they're still.

when he's too hungry, and when his tongue is too swollen and hurt to fit between his teeth, it's then and there that he eats. he can never finish what's on his plate. no room in his body for anything but the bare minimum. two or three mouthfuls before he has to stop and roll away to the floor and hold himself on his side, wait for everything to digest, for his insides to settle down. painful and swollen tight. pushing the rest of the carcass out his door and over the balcony's edge like a sacrifice thrown over a cliff to some ocean god that waits in the black sea below. like feed supplied to the other roaming animals. cows fed other ground-up cows in their food supply. that brings the risk of mad cow disease, but it saves on feed cost in the end.

he thinks maybe he used to work in a slaughterhouse, thousands of years ago, in another lifetime. when he dreams, in the few times he dreams, he dreams of being there. he dreams he worked on the processing line, opening throats of massive things hung up by their back legs. the steaming hot gush of blood agains his rubber apron, against his galoshes. the wide whites of cow eyes rolling wildly with their tongues half out of their mouths as they hang and bleed dry. he isn't sure if he's dreaming when he digs the piece of pipe into someone's throat and their expression matches the cows in his dreams perfectly. seamlessly. maybe he's still there working, and this reality here is the dream he's having. he can't keep track sometimes. he blinks his eyes and it feels as though an immeasurable amount of time's passed.

there's a crying thing one cell over, one day. that cell had been empty and quiet the day before (or maybe just hours before), but now there was a noise echoing out from inside. something hidden inside the holes in the walls now awakening from hibernation. something just born from an unseen monstrous creature that lived in the cell all along maybe, birthed new and wet into the world and wailing in agony, overstimulated and overwhelmed by the light and sound and sudden vastness around it, maybe. he takes his dirty piece of pipe, and he roams his bony self out of his cave and into the cell just next to his. the overhead light in there is out. something snivels from within the blackness. a huge dark shape. it's a cow, wedged under the small space between the bed frame and the floor. he can just make out the outlines of its body in the dim flickers of hallway light seeping in.

it senses him coming in, and its crying stutters its way into fearful speech, half choking in private fear. a dog strangling on a shard of rawhide lodged sharp inside its throat.  
"are you gonna tell papa," the cow whines and curls tighter around itself, shrinking its bulk down like it's trying to vanish into nothing. reduce to null. he stands in the doorway with his pipe piece and doesn't say anything.  
"don't, don't tell him," its voice rising higher and softer. girlish in its teary terrified shame. "don't tell him i fucked up, i fucked up bad, oh please-"  
"there's no papas here," he tells it with the light seeping in around his ankles, slow like liquid butter. "they don't bring bulls here."  
"papa's everywhere," it's wailing into its hands. "papa sees everywhere i go- everything i do." it undulates in place, rocking itself on the floor like the rocking of a bassinet. the fear is everywhere like the heavy unwashed stench around it that kicks up in clouds as it rocks itself. he's never seen a cow more afraid, and it gives him pause. it'll foul the beef if it's so afraid, he's heard. this isn't an assembly line anymore. he has a little more control of the flow of things here. here, in his privately own butcher shop where the produce comes to him. very fresh.  
"what did you do?"  
"i," whimper, stutter, tremble, muffle, "i, i, i did, some, something i shouldn't. he said, said not to. he said don't ever, he, he said," and on and on in a useless mumbling unintelligible monologue. he can feel his hand sweating around the piece of pipe. surface growing slick.

he stands in the doorway with the dim hallway lights flickering behind him, listening to it cry and contrasting it in his head with the animals in the halls just outside, and it occurs to him that it isn't a cow at all. it's something soft and boneless. a quivering pod of skin with no structure or rhyme or reason to its construction. a blind immobile something that's far bigger than him but weaker than him, weaker than the knife edge of his pipe and the sharp angular jut of hard bones that protrude up from underneath his papery yellowed skin.  
  
he feels the mangled stubs of the root of his cock ache in recognition of something that he can have.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quicker thing about another, different unimportant man.

beautiful. beautiful. he can see some of the faces of the crushed open bodies stacked and strewn throughout the small room, and some (the ones with enough eyes left to see, unruptured and untouched by the stewing maggot life) are looking off into space and some are staring at the floor, and one just so happens to be looking at him, right at him. just for him. he wheezes and stumbles left, catching himself on the wall with his cut open palm. he'd caught it on a thin sheet of metal jutting out from the edge of the roof he'd clambered down, and it slashed his hand to the bone. felt it squealing along his metacarpals. if he doesn't look at it, it won't hurt. his other hand has three fingers left on it; the fingertips are all missing down to the first knuckle, and the pinky and ring fingers are long gone, long-ago victims of diabetic rot, and with this mash of a hand he fumbles clumsily with the drawstring on his pants, feeling himself pulse and twitch and leak against the inside of the filth-stiffened fabric. like a wall. pressurized. ohh, fuck. fuck.

he'd been like this since it began, hard and aching hot for hours and hours since shit hit the fan when the power went out. the violence erupting around him. just for him. a movie and he was the star. he'd climbed through a window and lead himself down outside, and he'd walked the muddy wet grounds in a daze, cold mud between his toes and cold rain tap tap tapping off his skull and cold sweat rolling down his ribs and the small of his back. and hard and hot and spitting greasy fluid against the inside of his thigh, fucking hard and demanding attention but no apt time before now to touch. taste. indulge. in a few minutes, when he's begun flapping his hand around the stub of dick he's got, he'll close his eyes and think back to an hour ago, when he picked up a piece of glass from the floor that had fallen from the broken window above and stabbed a blind screaming man in his throat, right in the side into an artery and deeper into his esophagus. ran the man's neck through and watched the blood squirt out in a pressurized rushing spray, in time with his slamming heart. listened to him choke on the red spilling down his throat, choking it up, into his sinuses, out his nose. he stopped for a second and watched the panic well in the man's glassy blind eyes, and then he twisted his zigzag-scarred thighs around the man's shoulders and slid his bundle of hpv warts into the slit-open hole he'd gouged and carved for himself, squeezing himself inside and fucking the hole, jabbing down into his airways, his windpipe. nice and wet and tight for him, tight and moaning (gurgling) like a virgin, you a virgin babygirl? this your first time?

(i'm your first aren't i baby)

(you like it?)

(feel good?)


End file.
